SK 
301 

S4 


II    Illlll 
SB   33 


Reflections  of  a 
Moose  Hunter 

By  Joseph  Stowe  Seabury 


o 


o 
>- 


REFLECTIONS 
OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


¥\  :• 


Courtesy  of  Mr.  C.  J.  Hawkins 


For  two  hours  Mr.  Hawkins,  the  photographer,  prevented  this  moose 
from  making  shore.  After  several  pictures  were  made  of  the  bull  swimming, 
he  was  allowed  to  go  ashore,  where  he  immediately  collapsed  in  the  grass, 
utterly  exhausted  from  his  compulsory  exercise.  This  portrait  was  then 
easily  taken 


REFLECTIONS  of  a 
MOOSE  HUNTER 

<iA  -personal  resume  of  the  serious  ',  picturesque, 
and  droll  aspects  of  life  in  tbe  moose  country^ 
with  photographs  by  the  author  and  others 


JOSEPH  STOWE  SEABURY 


PRIVATELY    PRINTED 


V\   D  U  1 


Copyright 

by  Joseph  Stowe  Seabury 
'/,  ,1          1921 


THOMAS    TODD    COMPANY 

Printers 

BOSTON   •  MASSACHUSETTS 


To 


MOSES   DAVIDSON 
C.  HALE    REID 

AND 

ROBERT  ROSS 

three  sturdy,  skillful  woodsmen,  who  have 
conducted  me  on  many  happy  journeys 
through  the  silent  forests  of  the  north, 
this  little  work  is  cordially  inscribed. 


444749 


INDEX 


To  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN 

THE  BIRTH  OF  A  NOTION 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WOODS 

THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 

LITTLE  HELPS  FOR  THE  BEGINNER 

73  ASKED  —  44  BID 

FROM  WHENCE  COMETH  MY  HELP 

DIALOGUE 

WHAT  THE  STARS  DID 

THE  MOOSE 

A  TRIBUTE 

MY  MOUNTAIN 

MANY  ARE  CALLED,  BUT  FEW  WILL  COME 

TOUT  SEUL 

THE  ONE  DEFENCE 


PAGE 

9 

10 

14 
16 

24 
26 

3* 
33 

37 
40 

41 
46 

47 
56 
67 


APOLOGIA 

A  a  glance  these  pages  are  seen  to  include  a  wide 
diversity  of  themes  and  treatment.  Without 
apparent  sequence  or  provocation  I  have  jumped 
from  the  substantial  to  the  trivial,  from  the  sublime  to 
the  jocose.  Facts,  fancies,  events,  and  pleasantries  are 
jumbled  together  and  displayed  in  promiscuous  verse  and 
prose.  However,  I  am  sure  the  sportsmen  who  visit  the 
woods  and  waterways  appreciate  these  extremities  of  in- 
terests and  find  them  to  be  the  sum  and  substance  of  ex- 
hilarating days  and  cozy  evenings.  This  little  book,  for 
the  most  part,  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  hetero- 
geneous collection  of  personal  impressions  and  simple 
achievements  jotted  down  in  the  distant  hunting  camps  of 
New  Brunswick,  where  visions,  however  superficial,  are 
plenty  and  constant.  While  many  have  met  with  greater 
successes  in  big  game  shooting  than  I  am  able  here  to 
record,  few  perhaps  would  bother  their  heads  to  tabulate 
such  trifling  occurrences  and  casual  conceptions  as  I  have 
assembled. 

My  annual  excursions  to  the  silent  forests  and  the 
rippling  rivers  of  Canada  have  given  instruction,  sport, 
amusement,  and  rest.  I  have  been  my  own  bookkeeper, 
so  to  speak,  and  entered  on  my  ledger  the  receipts  of  joy- 
ful experience.  The  investment  has  proved  a  wise  one; 
I  have  cut  my  coupons  of  happiness  and  health,  and  each 
year  extra  dividends  are  declared. 

For  my  photographs  I  claim  no  credit,  but  to  the 
neophyte  they  may  indicate  what  any  one  can  do  with  a 
little  pocket  kodak.  Such  results  as  are  achieved  by  Mr. 
Chauncey  J.  Hawkins,  the  big  game  photographer,  few 
of  us  may  hope  to  equal,  and  to  him  I  am  grateful  for  the 
use  of  one  or  two  views.  T  S  S 

Weston,  Massachusetts 
May,  1921. 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


Superb  head  taken  in  1917 ;  spread,  64|  inches 


Widest  known  New  Brunswick  moose  head,  shot  1917.    Width,  72  inches 

8 


TO    WHOM    IT    MAY    CONCERN 


TO  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN 

TO  him  who  on  occasions  goes  for  business  or  for 
fun  to  the  quiet  forest  places  where  the  little 
rivers  run,  and  the  moose  call  from  the  barren, 
and  the  spotted  ospreys  make  the  windy,  hissing  noises  as 
they  dip  across  the  lake ;  where  a  million  stars  are  hidden 
by  a  shaft  of  northern  light,  and  the  gentle  winds  at  sun- 
set are  the  organ  chords  of  night,  this  collection  is  com- 
mended as  a  message  from  the  land  where  visions  glow 
like  sunshine  —  and  he  will  understand. 

My  text  and  illustrations  are  designed  to  represent 
the  pleasures,  the  successes,  the  mirth  and  discontent,  the 
ecstasy  of  mountains — with  autumn  coming  round,  the 
atmosphere  of  color,  the  symphony  of  sound.  Every 
gladsome  inspiration,  every  fancy,  great  or  small,  comes 
on  when  one  goes  forth  alone,  or  comes  on  not  at  all.  If 
poets,  then,  must  saunter  to  write  about  a  bird,  you  too 
must  saunter  or,  forsooth,  you  will  not  grasp  a  word. 

So,  these  my  simple  episodes,  impressions  and  delights, 
gathered  and  recorded  in  the  woods  on  autumn  nights, 
are  for  him  and  only  him  who  loves  the  moose  tracks  in 
the  snow  and  the  solitary  places  of  the  forest  where  they 

go- 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  NOTION 

I  WAS  a  lad  in  my  early  teens  when  the  great  inspira- 
tion came.  The  brief  holidays  in  what  I  loved  to 
consider  the  wilds  of  Maine  were  at  an  end,  and  I 
sat  in  the  Pullman  gazing  thoughtfully  out  the  window, 
picturing  again  and  again  the  few  deer  I  had  seen  on  this 
my  first  visit  to  the  woods.  Like  most  boys  I  then  began 
to  feel  keenly  the  delight  in  wild  things,  the  mysterious 
wonder  of  life  in  the  back  country,  and  the  desire  to 
return  again  and  penetrate  those  desolate  places.  Re- 
hearsing and  exaggerating  the  tales  of  the  guide,  em- 
ployed for  me  on  two  or  three  occasions,  I  told  myself 
little  wild  stories  of  would-be  adventure  in  February 
drifts,  trapping  bear  and  shooting  big  deer  with  heavy 
antlers.  That  bear  hibernated  and  deer  were  protected 
by  law  in  that  particular  month  of  the  year,  I  had  yet  to 
learn. 

It  was  late  September.  The  procession  of  summer 
tourists  had  stopped  its  noisy  parade  through  the  Range- 
ley  Lake  region  and  was  turning  back  to  home  and  office. 
How  I  hated  their  careless,  gregarious  chatter  about  golf 
and  cards  and  steamboat  trips.  I  held  aloof  and  believed 
myself  very  superior.  Did  none  of  them  see  the  joy  of 
striking  off  alone  with  an  old  backwoodsman  to  sleep  in  a 
distant  log  camp  and  at  evening  watch  the  fishhawks  and 
the  deer?  They  seemed  to  miss  the  true  significance  of 
the  country;  they  failed  to  recognize  the  most  conspicuous 
pleasures  of  the  woods;  they  pursued  the  same  interests 
common  to  Manchester  or  Scituate.  Frightfully  stupid 
and  silly  people!  I,  in  my  wisdom,  had  found  what  I 

10 


THE    BIRTH    OF   A    NOTION 


called  the  real  purpose  of  the  existence  of  forests ;  a  home 
was  thereby  provided  for  wild  birds  and  big  game.  These 
woods,  therefore,  gave  discerning  folk  a  chance  to  live 
along  with  nature  and  observe  her  mysteries  and  beauties. 
I  had  seen  some  deer,  and  a  track  in  the  mud  that  the 
guide  said  was  made  by  a  moose !  I  think  I  was  stuck  on 
myself.  But  I  was  quite  happy. 

A  gentleman  of  about  fifty,  intelligent  and  agreeable, 
seated  in  the  chair  next  to  me,  shattered  my  carefully 
built  castles  by  asking  whether  I  had  been  in  the  woods. 
With  bold  confidence  and  a  thrill  of  boyish  delight,  I 
launched  forth  on  a  description  of  my  rare  and  wild  ex- 
periences with  a  guide  on  an  overnight  trip  miles  and  miles 
from  the  hotel.  We  had  seen  some  deer  and  a  moose 
track!  The  gentleman  appeared  deeply  interested  and 
after  quietly  asking  several  further  questions,  to  which  I 
made  prolonged  and  graphic  replies,  I  ventured  to  inquire 
if  he  had  ever  visited  the  wilds  of  Maine.  Then  it  was 
that  I  first  heard  straight  dope  from  a  man  after  my  own 
heart,  a  man  from  the  city  who  had  done  the  big  thing. 
Though  a  dozen  (or  two)  years  have  slipped  by  since 
that  meeting  on  the  Boston  train,  I  can  recall  his  story 
almost  word  for  word. 

"Every  September,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  simple  sin- 
cerity, as  if  I  and  not  the  other  returning  vacationists 
could  appreciate,  "I  leave  the  business  and  society  of  New 
York,  and  bury  myself  in  the  wilds  of  New  Brunswick  on 
the  Miramichi.  For  eleven  months  I  slave  and  worry  in 
Wall  Street,  and  respond  to  the  social  demands  of  city 
and  seashore  life,  and  for  one  month  I  make  an  utter 
change  of  the  weary  program.  No  other  solution  of  the 
vacation  problem  is  possible  for  me.  Golf  at  the  club,  a 
motor  trip  with  the  family,  and  week-end  visits  in  the 

u 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


country  are  all  well  and  good,  but  they  don't  give  the 
complete  re-creation.  To  be  truly  rested  up,  I  must 
leave  behind  me  the  ticker,  the  telephone,  newspapers, 
motors,  good  clothes,  razors,  and  all.  Then  I  am  free  to 
rest  and  hunt  and  forget.  All  my  affairs  I  get  in  shape, 
pack  up  the  old  duffel,  and  slide  out  for  a  month  with  the 
big  game  in  the  Canadian  wilds." 

To  say  I  was  now  all  ears  is  mildly  putting  it.  And 
my  delightful  friend  rambled  on  with  a  sort  of  indiffer- 
ent leisure,  as  if  his  theories  and  episodes  were  too  precious 
to  put  much  stress  upon. 

"Two  friendly  woodsmen — guide  and  cook — meet  me 
at  the  little  station  on  the  Miramichi,  and  the  change 
begins.  From  then  on  I  listen  to  different  talk,  see  dif- 
ferent sights,  and  do  different  things." 

From  his  pocket  he  drew  a  little  notebook,  much  worn 
and  filled  with  dim  scribblings.  "Here's  my  diary.  I 
jot  down  impressions,  observations,  and  records  of  game 
encountered.  For  instance:  'September  17,  6  moose,  4 
caribou,  6  deer,  fox.  September  18,  5  moose,  3  deer, 
bear,  eagles,  etc.'  '  And  then  he  told  of  the  trophies 
hanging  on  the  walls  of  his  country  house  on  Long  Is- 
land, and  the  satisfying  success  of  the  hunt  that  now  had 
come  to  a  close. 

All  the  way  to  Boston  he  talked  and  I  listened.  When 
it  was  time  to  separate,  he  took  me  warmly  by  the  hand 
and  said  something  about  the  pleasures  of  telling  his  story 
to  one  who  appreciates.  He  said,  too,  I  think,  that  I 
would  be  just  the  sort  of  man  some  day  who  would  love 
such  a  trip  to  the  wilderness.  In  that  I  felt  he  was  right. 

As  the  shooting  seasons  have  come  and  gone,  how  many 
times  I  have  thought  of  this  agreeable  New  Yorker,  who 
helped  guide  my  ship  of  sport  up  the  wild  streams  in  the 

12 


THE    BIRTH    OF   A    NOTION 


Miramichi  Country  of  New  Brunswick.  It  followed  that 
on  a  dozen  or  more  occasions  I  have  slipped  away,  as  he 
did,  to  see  the  golden  colors  of  the  autumn  woods  and 
look  in  upon  the  big  game  of  those  distant  haunts.  Who 
he  was  I  never  knew.  On  visits  to  the  Province,  I  have 
made  inquiries,  but  no  one  could  tell  anything  definite 
concerning  a  rich  Wall  Street  banker  who  came  each  year 
to  hunt  the  Miramichi  waters.  He  may  have  died,  or 
perhaps  he  turned  his  attention  to  other  game  fields.  I 
wonder  whether  he  has  ever  seen  my  stupid  things  on 
moose  and  deer!  If  he  gets  hold  of  this  expose  perhaps 
he  will  turn  up. 


To  whom  this  book  is  inscribed 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WOODS 

i 

Through  the  pale  tamaracks 

There  are  caribou  tracks, 
Where  the  herd  has  gone  down  for  a  cruise ; 

And  from  here  to  the  Pole 

It's  a  hell  of  a  hole 
In  the  vale  of  the  River  Renous. 

2 

A  little  old  man — 

So  the  story  once  ran — 
Packed  in  with  supplies  and  some  booze, 

And  along  went  his  son, 

Who  carried  the  gun, 
For  a  hunt  on  the  River  Renous. 

3 

In  a  fortnight  the  lad, 

Looking  dreadfully  bad, 
Stumbled  into  a  camp  with  the  news 

That  his  father  was  lost, 

Just  after  they  crossed 
Some  branch  on  the  Upper  Renous. 

4 

He  was  nervous  and  numb, 
So  they  gave  him  some  rum ; 

And  the  Jacks  from  the  lumbering  crews 
Were  willing  to  go 
In  the  wind  and  the  snow 

To  search  on  the  River  Renous. 

14 


A    TRAGEDY    OF    THE    WOODS 


5 

No  word  could  they  bring! 

'Twas  a  pitiful  thing 
That  a  man  should  go  hunting  and  lose 

His  way  in  the  woods, 

With  only  the  goods 
That  would  do  him  a  week  on  Renous. 

6 

On  November  the  fourth 

A  storm  from  the  north 
Brought  them  back  to  their  work  with  the  crews; 

The  drifts  were  too  deep 

To  look  for  lost  sheep 
In  the  vale  of  the  River  Renous. 

7 

At  last  came  the  day 

Towards  the  middle  of  May 
Some  trappers  came  down  in  canoes, 

And  reported  they  found 

In  the  desolate  ground 
Several  leagues  to  the  north  of  Renous, 

8 

The  skull  of  a  man — 

And  a  bullethole  ran 
(The  size  that  the  boy  used  to  use) 

Clear  through  the  man's  head — 

And  so  he  was  dead 
Before  he  was  lost  on  Renous. 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 

FIFTEEN  thousand  people  will  shoot  in  New  Bruns- 
wick this  fall.  Twenty  thousand  more  people  will 
take  care  of  them.  From  the  mere  fact  that  game 
abounds,  employment  is  given  and  money  is  spent.  Rail- 
ways, steamship  lines,  hotels,  camps,  guides,  teamsters, 
and  the  treasury  are  indebted  directly  to  game  for  big 
profits.  Do  we  wonder,  then,  that  the  game  laws  are 
carefully  contrived? 

We  know  the  number  of  licenses  granted  and  the  num- 
ber of  animals  shot  and  reported,  but  who  can  estimate  the 
residents  who  shoot  continually  or  occasionally  without 
official  permit?  Neither  the  vigilant  warden  nor  the  in- 
quisitive sportsman  will  ever  learn  the  amount  of  big 
game  annually  killed  by  back  farmers,  who  wander  off 
at  will  to  their  familiar  hunting  ground  at  any  and  all 
times  of  year.  When  beef  is  high,  and  venison  is  waiting 
in  the  adjoining  wood,  we  can  hardly  blame  the  poor 
farmer,  who,  doubtless,  is  thinking  more  of  his  needy 
family  than  the  sport  of  the  chase.  Lumber  crews,  pot 
hunters,  licensed  sportsmen,  and  well-paid  guides  should 
be  and  are  more  closely  watched,  and  it  seems  for  them 
largely  that  the  laws  are  made.  In  spite  of  this  illegal 
shooting,  indefinite  in  its  extent,  the  game  increases.  Legis- 
lation allows  for  it.  Statutes  enacted  are  based  on  re- 
ports of  the  legally  killed  and  the  living  numbers  remain- 
ing, not  on  the  unknown  dead. 

We  New  Englanders  are  fortunate  in  having  close  at 
hand  a  vast  hunting  country  well  stocked  with  moose.  To 
the  lone  hunter,  moving  slowly  through  unbroken  spruce 

16 


THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 

forest  and  wild  barren  lands — unspeakably  still — the 
wooded  world  seems  vast,  though  the  Province  occupies 
less  area  than  the  State  of  Maine.  The  habitat  of  the 
moose  extends  from  Nova  Scotia  across  the  entire  con- 
tinent to  the  timber  line  of  western  Alaska,  but  nowhere 
is  the  species  more  abundant  in  an  equal  area  than  in  New 
Brunswick.  It  is  the  best  and  the  nearest.  Sportsmen 
may  board  the  evening  train  at  Boston  and  reach  any 
one  of  fifty  good  hunting  grounds  before  the  next  sun 
sets.  Every  portion  has  been  surveyed  and  hunted,  and 
innumerable  lumber  crews  at  one  time  or  another  in  the 
past  hundred  years  have  cut  the  marketable  pine  and 
spruce.  While  shooting,  fishing,  logging,  and  mining 
continue  from  year  to  year,  the  push  of  civilization  is 
not  a  serious  menace  to  game.  The  lands  for  the  most 
part  are  owned  or  controlled  by  the  government,  the  rail- 
roads, and  the  lumber  companies.  Your  big  game  shoot- 
ing license,  costing  fifty  dollars  and  allowing  one  bull 
moose  and  two  deer,  permits  you  to  trespass  over  and 
hunt  the  entire  Province.  No  lands  are  posted. 

For  forty  odd  years  moose  have  been  more  or  less 
abundant  in  New  Brunswick.  The  oldest  residents  state 
that  in  the  6o's  and  VG'S,  moose  as  well  as  deer  were 
very  scarce  in  the  district,  because  of  their  constant 
slaughter  by  both  Indians  and  wolves  in  the  earlier  settle- 
ment days.  Hides  and  meat  were  of  great  value  to  the 
Indians  of  a  century  and  more  ago,  who,  with  neither 
game  laws  nor  thought  of  the  future  to  check  them, 
hunted  down  bulls,  cows,  and  calves  alike.  But  in  recent 
years,  thanks  to  those  efficient  game  laws  and  the  peren- 
nial feeding  grounds,  the  game  is  everywhere  to  be  found. 

To  the  novice  and  connoisseur  alike,  it  is  astonishing 
to  observe  what  great  numbers  of  moose  there  are  in  the 

17 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


Province.  The  lake  shores  and  the  old  roads  are  still 
trodden  with  fresh  signs  the  summer  through,  while 
across  the  early  winter  snows  the  woodsman  sees  the 
same  familiar  network  of  trails  zig-zagging  up  and  down 
the  ridges.  In  skillful  hands  you  will  sight  the  game  it- 


Straight  goods 

self  at  all  seasons  under  reasonable  conditions  of  woods 
and  weather.  Though  tracks  are  sure  and  helpful  tell- 
tales, it  does  not  mean  you  will  straightway  see  your 
moose.  It  is  more  likely  that  you  will  be  discovered  and 
forthwith  avoided  before  you  learn  that  game  is  near. 
In  order  to  get  a  proper  conception  of  the  quantities  of 
moose  in  the  Province,  some  well-frequented  feeding 
ground  should  be  visited  in  summer.  We  know  that  half 

18 


THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 


a  dozen  domestic  cattle  can  convert  a  green  pasture  into 
a  veritable  cow  yard  in  one  short  season;  but  when  a 
thousand  deep  moose-leads  converge  to  the  lake  and  the 
entire  shore  line  is  trodden  down  like  a  public  highway, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  see  the  game  itself  or  consult  the 
government  reports  to  be  convinced  that  the  actual  num- 
bers are  very  large.  The  head  waters  of  trout  and  salmon 
streams,  in  some  instances,  are  so  continually  disturbed 
by  moose  that  the  fishing  for  some  distances  below  is 
utterly  ruined.  On  a  warm  morning  in  July  of  last  year 
a  reliable  woodsman  counted  fifty-seven  individuals  at  a 
lonely  lake  in  the  interior  of  New  Brunswick,  and  in  Oc- 
tober, when  the  weather  was  cold  and  the  feed  poor,  I 
sighted  seventeen  at  one  time  on  a  large  dead-water.  Con- 
sidering the  relative  seasons,  one  report  is  of  as  much 
significance  as  the  other. 

By  referring  to  the  table  herewith,  it  will  readily  be 
seen  that  the  official  statistics  of  moose  recorded,  prior, 
of  course,  to  the  natural  post-war  revival,  indicate  a  general 
decrease.  The  reports  of  deer  taken  are  here  included 
to  show  the  comparison  in  big  game  conditions : 


Moose 

Deer 

Game  Licenses 

Non-Resident 
Licenses 

Resident 
Licenses 

License 
Receipts 

191  1 

2,057 

2,260 

9,776 

507 

9,269 

45,671 

47,026 

1912 

1913 

1,854 

3,061 

10,270 

518 

9,75* 

i,50i 

2,075 

8,574 

49° 

8,084 

50,048 

1914 

*,737 

2,705 

8,54i 

382 

8,159 

44,673 

1915 

1,129 

*,353 

7,948 

38i 

7,567 

42,764 

1916 

1,511 

2,826 

8,363 

453 

7,910 

44,3^4 

1917 

No  Record 

1^,479 

373 

12,106 

40,6x6 

1918 

613 

i,  086 

8,589 

194 

8,395 

24,711 

1919 

i,43° 

2,416 

15,118 

469 

14,649 

49,475 

1920 

1,596 

2,844 

15,676 

5'4 

15,162 

56,024 

REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

The  diminishing  figures  of  moose  reported  before  1918, 
due  in  some  degree  to  the  demands  and  effects  of  the  war, 
are  not  altogether  a  sure  indication  of  a  gradual  shortage 
in  shootable  bulls.  Nevertheless,  since  cows  and  calves 
are  protected,  the  bull  moose  is  universally  sought  and 
killed.  So  persistently  is  he  hunted,  that  by  the  time  his 
antlers  attain  a  respectable  development,  his  escape  is 
doubtful.  The  number  of  animals  annually  shot  fluctu- 
ates not  wholly  by  reason  of  the  inevitable  increase  or 
decrease  of  the  species,  but  also  by  such  influences  as 
weather  conditions,  food  supply,  lumber  operations,  and 
natural  enemies.  Deer  and  moose  are  perceptibly  more 
abundant  after  a  mild  winter,  while  severe  weather  and 
deep  snows  destroy  some  of  the  younger  and  weaker  in- 
dividuals, put  the  animals  in  poor  shape  for  propagation, 
and  hinder  the  proper  development  of  both  antler  and 
body.  Forest  fires  for  the  time  being  drive  game  to  other 
feeding  grounds,  but  fresh  and  tender  shoots  through- 
out these  newly  fertilized  lands  bring  them  back  in  even 
greater  numbers.  The  best  hunting  sections  are  found 
today  in  territories  which  were  swept  by  fire  three  to 
eight  years  ago.  Lumber  cuttings  affect  the  prevalence  of 
big  game  in  much  the  same  way.  Great  operations, 
blasting  and  promiscuous  shooting  by  lumber  and  mining 
crews  keep  the  game  away  from  these  regions,  which 
make  excellent  feeding  grounds  when  the  new  growth 
has  begun.  Every  experienced  hunter  knows  the  thrilling 
prospect  of  visiting  old  lumber  cuttings  and  camp  clear- 
ings. 

As  the  bull  grows  older  and  more  experienced,  he  ap- 
parently becomes  conscious  of  the  prize  he  carries  and 
retreats  to  distant  haunts  seldom  visited  by  his  human 
enemy.  From  published  and  verbal  reports,  it  is  evident 

20 


THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 

that  big  heads  are  not  as  common  as  in  past  years,  though 
the  toll  of  this  year's  kill  is  yet  to  be  revealed.  It  is 
stated  on  good  authority  that  "allowing  one  calf  a  year, 
after  the  cows  are  two  years  old,  fifty  cow  moose  pro- 
tected for  eight  years  would  represent  a  total  of  fifteen 
hundred  animals:"  In  spite  of  the  annual  slaughter  and 
other  destructive  causes,  there  appear  to  be  more  moose — 
that  is,  more  cow  moose — each  year  in  the  Province. 
But,  more  cows,  more  bulls  for  the  future. 

We  have  no  knowledge  of  any  New  Brunswick  moose 
head  which  can  equal  in  actual  size  the  72-inch  specimen 
taken  on  the  upper  Nepisiguit  Waters  in  1917  by  Lezar 
Russell,  a  native  of  Bathurst.  The  points  are  twenty- 
seven  in  number,  and  it  will  be  seen  by  the  accompany- 
ing illustration  that  the  longest  prongs  and  the  blades 
themselves  stretch  out  in  nearly  a  horizontal  position, 
giving  the  unusual  width.  This  can  be  considered  neither 
a  uniform  nor  a  relatively  interesting  specimen,  and  is 
inferior  to  several  well-known  heads  of  lesser  measure- 
ment, among  them  the  Restigouche  trophy — 64^  inches — 
pictured  on  page  8.  For  ten  years  Dr.  W.  L.  Munroe, 
of  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  held  the  record  for  the 
Province.  His  moose,  measuring  68J  inches  when  shot 
in  1907,  is  more  symmetrical  and  in  general  a  finer  speci- 
men than  the  Russell  head.  The  largest  known  moose 
head  in  the  world,  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Field 
Columbian  Museum  in  Chicago,  was  shot  on  the  Kenai 
Peninsula  in  1889.  This  is  a  massive  affair,  running  to 
78^  inches  in  spread  and  carrying  thirty-six  points. 

In  judging  the  value  of  a  moose  head,  there  are  several 
points  to  be  considered  in  addition  to  the  mere  spread  of 
horns,  which  is  the  widest  distance  between  the  tip  ends  of 
corresponding  prongs.  The  judge  must  also  observe  the 

21 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE   HUNTER 

weight,  number,  and  length  of  prongs,  width  and  thick- 
ness of  palms,  development  of  brow  antlers,  diameter 
and  circumference  of  beam,  and  the  general  symmetry, 
color,  and  condition.  To  determine  the  width  of  antlers, 
a  steel  tape  should  be  used  and  the  line  should  be  hori- 
zontal. Diagonal  measurements  are  considered  unoffi- 
cial, but  if  corresponding  tines  are  not  in  evidence,  the 
tape  should  run  from  the  points  that  have  the  nearest 
relation,  letting  the  necessary  diagonal  line  stand  as  the 
result.  Some  authorities  maintain  that  the  fair  and  rea- 
sonable method  is  to  take  the  widest  distance  between  two 
vertical  lines  through  which  the  head  may  pass  in  its 
natural  position. 

The  history  of  a  head  should  be  known  to  give  au- 
thenticity to  the  dimensions  claimed.  Better  still,  the 
skull  and  horns  should  be  preserved  unmounted.  If  ex- 
hibited in  this  way,  it  is  possible  to  detect  any  split  or 
wedge  in  the  skull,  a  device  which  throws  the  antlers  out 
of  their  former  plane,  giving  several  inches  gain  in  the 
aggregate.  A  treatment  of  moose  horns,  which  is  wholly 
beyond  detection,  is  the  use  of  a  rod  and  turn-buckle 
forced  between  the  blades  when  the  head  is  green.  The 
buckle  is  turned  and  the  pressure  increased  every  day  or 
two  for  several  months  until  the  head  is  dry  and  its  posi- 
tion fixed.  When  the  apparatus  is  removed,  the  spread  in 
the  meantime  has  increased — and  we  have  a  "record 
head"  ready  for  the  market.  Tampering  with  big  moose 
heads  to  make  them  bigger  is  a  practice  which  cannot  be 
too  strongly  condemned.  There  was  a  time  when  trophies 
were  bought  and  sold  in  an  active  market,  bringing  good 
prices,  to  decorate  hotels,  restaurants,  and  even  private 
houses;  but  in  recent  years  the  demand  has  slackened, 
fortunately,  until  today  a  mounted  specimen  is  of  little 

22 


THE  MOOSE  CROP  OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK 

value  except  to  the  sportsman  who  shot  and  owns  it.  Not 
long  since  a  splendid  head  fetched  eighteen  dollars  in 
the  open  trade,  which  is  little  more  than  a  gift  when  we 
consider  that  the  taxidermist  bill  alone  came  to  forty  dol- 
lars. 

The  sad  and  unnecessary  disappearance  of  bison  and 
elk  has  been  to  us  a  good  lesson.  But  for  the  laws,  moose 
in  turn  would  pass.  This  species  of  vast  antiquity,  the 
largest  game  animal  on  the  continent,  is  receiving  com- 
mendable protection.  Across  the  border,  Maine  closed 
the  moose  lid  from  1914  until  1919,  when  there  was 
allowed  one  week  of  shooting.  And  over  these  near-by 
stretches  of  wild  and  wonderful  timber  lands,  uninter- 
rupted only  by  wilder  lakes  and  more  wonderful  streams, 
our  children's  children  will  go  moose  hunting. 


The  poet  counts  his  measured  feet, 
And  finds  the  sentiment  profuse, 

But  feels  the  sense  is  incomplete 

Without  a  word  to  rhyme  with  "  moose." 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


LITTLE  HELPS  FOR  THE  BEGINNER 

1.  When  calling  moose   and  you   find  yourself  at  all 

timid,  work  around  stealthily  to  windward  of 
the  approaching  bull  and  light  a  Fatima. 

2.  In  writing  the  account  of  your  trip  for  publication 

in  a  magazine,  refrain  from  alluding  to  the 
moose  as  the  "Monarch  of  the  Forest,"  be- 
cause I  have  already  used  the  term. 

3.  If,  in  traveling  at  random  through  the  wild  wood- 

lands, you  become  confused  and  believe  your- 
self to  be  lost,  return  to  camp  with  all  possible 
haste  for  an  ample  supply  of  food  and  blankets. 

4.  The  easiest  and  cheapest  way  to  avoid  the  mice,  and 

to  rid  yourself  of  the  dirty  blankets,  puffs,  and 
boughs — together  with  the  livestock  therein — is 
to  return  to  Brooklyn  and  sit  on  the  piazza. 

5.  If  you  hear  a  cow  moose  calling  from  a  distance, 

make  sure  no  bumble  bees  or  mosquitoes  are 
about  before  you  become  too  hopeful  of  excite- 
ment. 

6.  Take  complete  and  accurate  notes  of  the  episodes 

the  guides  tell,  so  that  on  your  return  you  may 
edit  a  book  entitled,  "The  Bull  of  the  North 
Woods." 

7.  When  watching  the  fishhawks  in  the  heavens,  and 

it  is  suddenly  necessary  for  you  to  follow  your 
guide  along  a  slippery  log  over  a  wide,  turbu- 
lent river,  keep  your  eye  sagaciously  on  the 
birds. 

24 


LITTLE    HELPS    FOR    THE    BEGINNER 


8.  If  a  faithful  moose  hunter  and  you  want  especially 

to  encounter  a  large  bull,  you  will  be  sure  to 
do  so,  provided  you  shoot  a  small  one  first. 

9.  When  your  snap-shots  are  developed,  you  will  doubt- 

less be  able  to  discern,  in  two  or  three  of  the 
prints,  tiny  black  specks  in  the  middle  distance. 
If  you  are  sure  these  dots  are  not  imperfections 
in  the  paper,  it  is  probable  they  are  the  por- 
traits of  the  moose  you  took  at  close  range. 
10.  In  case  you  are  particularly  opposed  to  profanity, 
and  also  happen  to  be  troubled  with  deafness, 
I  can  give  the  names  of  several  good  guides. 


In  following  the  chase  the  utmost  cau- 
tion at  all  times  should  be  exercised,  lest 
the  very  object  of  your  search  suddenly 
approaches  to  attack  you  unawares 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


73  ASKED  — 44  BID 

WE  were  encamped  on  the  South  Branch  of  the 
Renous  River,  forty-five  miles  from  the  rail- 
road at  Boiestown,  New  Brunswick,  and 
thirty-four  from  Holtville,  the  nearest  settlement.  Bob 
and  I  pulled  out  early  on  this  clear,  cool  morning — Sep- 
tember 1 6,  1919 — to  hunt  the  Fowler  Dead- Waters,  which 
are  small,  elongated  lakes,  characteristic  of  the  northern 
wilds.  Such  desolate  bodies  of  water,  with  grassy  shores 
and  scattered  deadwood,  surrounded  by  the  typical  spruce 
barrens  and  hardwood  ridges,  make  good  moose  hunting 
in  the  early  season.  Throughout  the  summer  and  well 
into  the  warm  weather  of  late  September,  the  game  resort 
to  such  places  for  food  and  for  protection  from  the  flies. 
On  the  previous  day  we  visited  Big  Fowler,  so-called, 
and  sighted  nothing  in  the  water.  It  was  too  cold.  To- 
day we  would  push  up  in  the  direction  of  Benton  Lake — 
still  on  the  Renous — with  the  hope  of  getting  a  moose  in 
the  low  lands  bordering  the  stream.  We  jumped  two 
deer  in  a  swale  en  route  to  a  barren  at  the  inlet,  and  at 
11.30  A.M.  we  started  to  cross  the  barren.  A  spike-horn 
buck,  oblivious  of  our  presence,  was  feeding  on  the 
hardback  at  very  close  range.  Because  we  needed  meat 
in  camp  I  shot  the  deer,  and  we  proceeded  to  dress  him 
off,  hang  up  the  quarters,  and  boil  the  kettle.  After  lunch 
and  the  usual  noontime  rest,  we  pushed  on  toward  the 
deep  spruce  forest,  carpeted  with  moss,  sometimes  known 
as  black  ground.  Not  200  yards  from  the  spot  where  the 
deer  was  killed,  and  the  fire  kindled,  we  heard  the  coughs 
and  grunts  of  a  bull,  and  almost  immediately,  as  we  moved 

26 


73    ASKED  — 44    BID 


cautiously  through  the  big  trees,  we  sighted  the  dark  form 
about  twenty  yards  directly  ahead.  The  animal  evidently 
had  been  lying  down,  and  now,  disturbed  by  our  approach, 
stood  in  a  quartering  position,  looking  fiercely  in  our  direc- 
tion. The  wind  was  well  in  our  faces,  and  therefore 
there  was  no  danger  of  his  getting  our  scent.  It  was  ap- 
parent to  both  of  us  that  the  moose  suspected  he  was  be- 
ing interrupted  by  another  of  his  own  kind,  and  his 
continued  grunts  meant  nothing  less  than  a  greeting  or  a 
challenge.  The  antlers  looked  very  large  and  white  as 
the  sunshine,  filtering  through  the  trees,  brought  them  out 
conspicuously.  Without  doubt,  it  was  a  good  head  and 
the  first  of  any  consequence  I  had  seen  on  this  trip. 

The  old  confusing  question  arose  in  my  mind — the 
problem  that  must  have  instantaneous  solution.  Every 
sportsman  goes  through  such  a  brief  period  of  uncertainty 
and  knows  how  vital  it  is,  since  he  is  allowed  one  moose, 
and  only  one.  Here  it  was  but  the  second  day  of  the 
open  season;  I  was  to  hunt  this  vast  country  for  a  fort- 
night longer ;  moose  were  plenty  and  I  stood  a  good  chance 
of  sighting  a  better  head;  but  on  two  previous  occasions 
I  "passed  up"  good  specimens,  only  to  go  home  eventually 
empty  handed.  From  both  sweet  and  bitter  experience  I 
knew  I  must  act.  Little  original  maxims,  silly  but  true, 
flashed  through  my  confused  brain,  like:  "Nothing  comes 
to  him  who  waits,"  and  "Shoot  now,  or  forever  hold 
your  piece."  So  I  shot,  believing  that  a  bird  in  the  hand 
was  best.  The  bull  lunged  forward  with  a  muffled  roar, 
and  before  he  could  make  much  progress  I  fired  a  second 
time,  which  brought  him  to  the  ground  in  a  state  of  final 
collapse. 

As  we  advanced  to  look  down  upon  the  great,  struggling 
body,  a  third  bullet  hastened  the  end.  To  me  the  moose 

27 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

did  look  a  splendid  specimen,  but  perhaps  no  finer,  in 
character,  size,  and  condition,  than  a  thousand  other 
trophies  that  have  fallen  to  a  thousand  other  rifles.  With 
loud  and  eager  exclamations  we  examined  the  various  de- 
tails of  usual  interest  to  sportsman  and  guide.  The  frame 
was  exceedingly  heavy,  the  body  in  prime  condition,  the 
bell  large  and  fleshy  but  not  long,  and  the  horns  well 
matched  and  even,  carrying  twenty-two  points,  with  a  total 
spread  of  forty-four  inches. 

In  an  instant,  so  to  speak,  the  annual  hope  of  a  record 
head  was  shattered.  Another  season's  opportunity  had 
come  and  gone,  and  another  average  pair  of  antlers  was 
the  measure  of  my  success.  Few  sportsmen  go  forth  to 
hunt  the  Cervus  Alces  without  the  inherent  hope  of  a 
record-breaking  specimen  in  number  of  points  and  meas- 
urement of  spread.  We  may  count  many  moose  in  the 
course  of  an  autumn  hunt,  and  truly  believe  we  see  some 


Good  specimens  taken  on  Renous  Waters,  1919, 50-inch  and  44-inch,  re- 
spectively. Notice  how  the  corresponding  points  of  right-hand  head  turn 
in.  If  they  had  stretched  out,  as  in  the  other  head,  the  measurement  would 
have  been  six  inches  wider 

28 


73    ASKED  — 44    BID 


enviable  horns,  but  what  an  infinitesimal  percentage  are 
blessed  with  prize-winning  results ! 

In  the  achievement  of  success,  I  am  convinced  that 
mere  skill  is  not  the  potent  factor.  It  is  chance.  In  the 
art  of  calling,  there  can  be  no  skill  in  the  selection  of 
individuals  who  may  answer  and  come;  in  still-hunting 


Bob  Ross  literally  in  the  act  of  calling  a 
bull  which  appeared  across  the  barren,  but 
too  far  distant  to  be  visible  in  this  view 


the  sportsman  takes  or  leaves  whatever  he  happens  to  in- 
tercept within  his  path  of  travel,  and  a  track  in  the  snow 
gives  no  certain  indication  of  the  size  of  antlers  the  ani- 
mal carries.  Some  of  the  keenest  and  best-known  ex- 
ponents of  big  game  shooting  have  never  been  credited 
with  excessively  large  heads.  They  have  hunted  wisely 

29 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

and  continuously,  with  the  result  that  the  rare  opportunity 
never  came.  To  secure  merely  a  moose,  or  any  game  in 
fact,  skill,  patience,  judgment,  and  marksmanship  are  first 
of  all  imperative,  but  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  ability 
to  uncover  the  big  head.  It  is  luck. 

On  this  particular  morning,  I  started  forth,  as  on  scores 
of  previous  mornings,  hoping,  of  course,  that  I  would 
encounter  a  Uy3-inch  moose."  But  it  so  happened  I 
chanced  upon  my  "44."  It  is  true  a  hunter,  for  example, 
may  know  a  large  bull  moose  frequents  a  certain  ground, 
and  forthwith,  at  the  proper  time,  lies  in  wait  and  slays 
the  game — presumably  identical  with  the  one  previously 
seen — but  even  in  such  an  instance,  the  dimensions  until 
the  kill  are  problematical.  I  think  of  skill  as  meaning 
cautious  hunting  or  good  marksmanship.  If  you  bag  a 
great  number  of  birds,  you  are  a  skillful  shot,  but  if 
you  don't  meet  with  any,  it  does  not  indicate  you  are  in- 
expert. 

On  one  occasion,  in  September,  1913,  my  guides  re- 
ported that  in  the  region  of  a  certain  lake  a  moose  carry- 
ing a  very  large  head  had  been  sighted  several  times  in 
the  late  summer.  It  was  surely  a  record-breaker,  they 
said,  and  very  much  worth  looking  up.  Early  in  the  sea- 
son we  proceeded  hopefully  towards  the  lake,  only  to  meet 
en  route  two  natives  from  a  distant  settlement,  who  were 
laden  with  horns  and  scalp  of  a  freshly  killed  moose.  The 
lads  had  shot  the  animal  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  for  which 
we  were  headed,  and  the  antlers  appeared  to  my  men  to 
tally  with  the  great  moose  we  were  expecting  to  slay.  The 
horns  carried  twenty-four  points  and  measured  from  tip 
to  tip  594  inches.  Though  neither  handsome  in  form 
nor  phenomenal  in  size,  it  was  a  good  catch  and  above 
the  average.  In  this  case  it  was  not  luck  that  the  men  got 

30 


73    ASKED  — 44    BID 


the  moose,  but  it  would  have  been  luck  had  the  head  ex- 
ceeded the  record. 

When  all  is  said  and  done,  the  moose  is  never  a  thing 
of  graceful  beauty.  The  antelope,  whitetail,  and  wapiti 
are  beautiful.  Since  a  moose  is  a  moose  and  the  margin 
of  comely  grace  is  therefore  limited,  there  are  some  of  us 
who  prefer  excessive  size  to  comparative  beauty.  The 
beast  is  of  Old  World  ancestry  and  peculiar  to  wild 
northern  timberlands.  The  largest  game  animal  of  the 
continent  I  like  to  think  of  in  terms  of  great  proportions. 
There  is  little  that  is  delicate  and  tender  about  the  re- 
gions he  inhabits;  they  are  vast,  immense,  boundless,  al- 
most violent  in  character  and  appearance.  The  mighty 
lord  of  such  places  I  look  upon  as  necessarily  big.  When 
a  moose  is  reported,  the  first  question  is,  "How  large?" 

A  sportsman  states  in  all  frankness  that  he  prefers  a 
decorative,  uniform  specimen  to  one  of  great  size.  But  all 
the  same,  if  the  choice  came  between  a  "fair  73"  and  a 
"superb  44,"  I  believe  I  can  guess  which  he  would  take. 
He  volunteers  the  desire  for  the  smaller  trophy  because 
he  knows  the  bigger  one  is  a  remote  possibility.  It  would  be 
too  much  like  the  dreams  of  a  child  to  place  the  wish  too 
strong.  And  we  sportsmen  have  put  away  childish  things. 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


FROM  WHENCE  COMETH  MY  HELP 

(A  SONNET) 

(Sef  to  music  by  JOHN  H.  DENSMORE) 

Since  last  I  trod  these  fairy  woods  and  wild, 

The  snows  and  bitter  blasts  have  beaten  hard, 
With  howling  utterance,  against  the  filed 

And  phantomed  firs  ;  and  yet,  behold,  unmarred 
And  beautiful  they  stand,  triumphant  —  fared 

The  stronger  for  the  tempests  ;  now  their  forms 
They  hold  erect  and  sturdy,  full  prepared 

To  battle  yet  again  approaching  storms. 
So,  as  I  launch  from  underneath  the  lea 

Of  this  my  early  manhood's  winter,  may 
I  now  withstand  the  turbulence,  and  be 

The  victor,  with  a  crown  of  strength  to  lay 
Upon  my  brow;  and  from  it  never  cease 

To  gain,  as  winter  cdmes  and  storms  increase. 


Watching  moose  at  a  typical  New  Brunswick  dead-water 
32 


DIALOGUE 


DIALOGUE 

between  youthful  City  Tenderfoot  and  Experi- 
enced Guide,  upon  meeting  at  railroad  station 
and  driving  to  back  farm  en  route  to  hunting 
trip. 

City  Tenderfoot.  Is  this  Mr.  Gunther? 
Experienced  Guide.  Yes.  Ed  Gunther. 
City  Tenderfoot.  My  name  is  Yardley  Cecil  Tripp.  My 

Aunt  Sophie  wrote  you  I  was  coming  for  a  few 

days? 

Experienced  Guide.     Somebody  wrote. 
C.  T.     She  thought  it  would  be  nice  if  I  came  up  and  got 

some  moose  and  deer  before  I  go  back  to  Miss 

Todd's  school.     Is  this  the  motor? 
E.  G.     No,  here's  my  team  over  here. 
C.  T.     After  you ;  thank  you.     Aunt  Sophie  told  me  that 

long  ago  my  uncle  used  to  go  down  to  Maine 

somewhere  to  fish  and  shoot,  but  she  thought  I 

would  get  more  game  up  here  near  this  river. 

What  is  the  name  of  it? 
E.  G.     Miramichi. 
C.  T.     Yes,  Miramichi ;  that's  it.     She  saw  something  in 

a  magazine  about  it.     Is  there  much  game  up 

here? 

E.  G.     Oh,  quiter  lot. 

C.  T.      I  suppose  you  people  see  wild  animals  all  the  time ! 
E.  G.     Yes,  some  o'  the  time. 
C.  T.     Do  the  deer  come  out  of  the  woods  and  graze 

around  and  then  go  back? 

33 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

E.  G.  They  come  out,  but  they  don't  always  go  back. 

C.  T.  Why  don't  they  go  back? 

E.  G.  Get  tangled  up  in  the  wire  fences. 

C.  T.  Pretty  cold  place  up  here,  isn't  it? 

E.  G.  'Taint  very  cold  in  the  summer. 


By  discipline  of  divers  sorts 

The  guides  proceed  to  train  their  "  sports  " 


C.  T.     The  summers,  though,  must  be  very  short. 

E.  G.     Oh,  'bout  three  months. 

C.  T.  I  have  a  dandy  new  gun  Aunt  Sophie  gave  me  just 
before  I  left.  I  haven't  opened  it  yet,  but  she 
said  it  was  a  savage  rifle.  We  must  look  at  it 
when  we  get  to  the  woods. 

34 


DIALOGUE 


E.  G.     Yes,  I  'spose  we  oughter  open  the  case  'fore  we 

start  shootin'. 
C.  T.     She  said  it  could  kill  a  deer  at  a  distance  of  400 

yards. 

E.  G.     That  you  could? 
C.  T.     She  was  speaking  of  the  gun. 
E.  G.     Oh,  yes,  that  might  be. 
C.  T.     I  have  forgotten  what  she  said  it  was. 
E.  G.     45-90  probably. 
C.  T.     Dear  me !  more  than  that — nearer  sixty  dollars,  I 

should  judge,  from  what  she  told  me  about  it. 
E.  G.     There's  a  deer!    See  him! 
C.  T.     Where? 
E.  G.     Over  there ! 
C.T.     Over  where? 
E.G.     See  him? 
C.  T.     No,  I  can't  seem  to — 
E.  G.     Backer  them  firs ! 
C.T.     What  firs? 
E.  G.     Them  firs  backer  the  barn ! 
C.  T.     Those  Christmas  trees?    Oh,  yes,  I  see  them. 
E.  G.     Well,  he's  over  here  now  by  them  birches ! 
C.T.     What  birches? 
E.  G.     There  he  goes  inter  the  woods ! 
C.  T.     He's  gone?    Strange  I  didn't  see  him. 
E.  G.     An  old  Gizzer !   Biggest  head  I  ever  saw. 
C.  T.     Didn't  he  have  any  horns? 
E.  G.     Yes,  I  say  he  had  a  big  head  o'  horns — as  big  er 

head  as'l  come  out  o'  the  country  this  fall. 
C.   T.     Is  that  so!     Well,  don't  all  the  heads  come  from 

the  country  ? 

E.  G.     Yes,  deer  heads,  but  bone  heads — 
C.  T.     How  many  will  make  up  our  party? 

35 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


E.  G.     Just  three — me  an'  you  an'  the  cook. 

C.  T.     You  don't  employ  a  waitress  then ! 

E.  G.     Never  have;  p'raps  we  oughter,  this  trip. 

C.  T.     Oh,  no;  don't  put  yourself  out  for  me.     I  want  to 

rough  it  and  put  up  with  all  the  inconveniences 

of  camping  out.     Do  we  sleep  in  tents  or  shacks 

or  what? 

E.  G.     Log  camp. 

C.  T.     And  the  cook,  where  does  she  sleep  ? 
E.  G.     In  the  same  camp.    Her  name's  Jim  Clark. 
C.  T.     Oh,  he's  a  man.    He's  a  chef ! 
E.  G.     Whatever  he  is,  he's  goin'  ter  cook. 
C.  T.     Pardon  me,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  expectorate  as 

you  do.     The  wind  makes  it  very  unpleasant. 

Well,  it  was  great,  our  running  on  to  a  deer  the 

first  thing.     Do  you  really  think  I  will  get  a — 

a — Gizzer? 
E.  G.     Oh,  maybe,  if  we  git  good  weather.     Looks  'zif 

'twas  goin'  ter  rain. 


The  proper  way  to  measure  moose  antlers 

36 


WHAT    THE    STARS    DID 


WHAT  THE  STARS  DID 
(From  a  Diary — Renous  River,  September  21,  1919) 

THIS  has  been  Sunday,  almost  all  day.  It  rained 
about  the  whole  time.  If  I  had  gone  to  church, 
and  Sunday  school,  and  prayer  meeting,  I  could 
not  be  in  a  depressing  frame  of  mind.  A  rainy  Sabbath 
anywhere  is  bad  enough — except  at  home.  This  hardly 
sounds  becoming,  for  I  am  supposed  to  be,  at  times, 
rather  poetically  religious  or  perhaps  religiously  poetic. 
At  any  rate,  this  is  not  a  sermon,  or  a  statement  of  creed; 
it  is  a  diary,  and  if  a  diary  is  a  good,  complete  one,  it 
should  contain  a  true  record  of  one's  spirits  as  well  as  one's 
doings. 

Very  blue,  slightly  homesick.  These  casual,  callous 
woodsmen  are  kindly  enough,  but  not  exactly  consoling. 
As  roommates  for  any  one  in  the  Theological  Seminary 
they  wouldn't  be  much,  nor  would  they  be  called  to  a 
bedside  to  administer  the  last  rites.  I  read.  I  read  the 
Testament,  a  good  novel,  and  a  cheap  magazine,  and 
wrote.  Then  at  4  P.M.  I  dressed  and  walked  up  the 
Portage  to  shake  this  stewed,  stuffy  feeling.  The  rain  let 
up,  but  the  sky -hung  very  low  with  heavy,  gray  clouds, 
and  the  black  spruce  forests  looked  dreadfully  gloomy. 
I  didn't  care  much  for  the  woods  or  the  walk — or  the  trip 
either.  And  to  make  things  worse,  a  cow  called  mourn- 
fully from  the  barren  below  the  road.  For  a  long  time  I 
stood  listening,  but  the  call  was  not  repeated,  and  I  heard 
no  answer.  Two  rusty  blackbirds  in  their  sorrowful  weeds 
moved  silently  in  the  alders,  and  a  Canada  jay  swept  down 

37 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


THE  MOOSE 

The  moose  is  very  wild  and  big  and  does  all  kinds  o'  harm 
Ter  people  if  they  don't  look  out;  but  on  my  father's  farm 
They  come  right  out — I  mean  the  moose — in  our  back  field  behind 
The  barn  and  feed  among  the  stock,  and  seem  so  nice  an'  kind. 
But  in  the  woods  they're  different  when  the  cows  begin  ter  call — 
My  father  knows,  'cause  he's  a  guide,  and  sometimes  in  the  fall 
He  takes  the  "sports"  into  his  camp  to  try  an'  get  a  moose — 
But  then's  the  time,  by  gorry !  they're  skittish  as  the  doose. 
One  time — 'twas  last  October — a  bull  attacked  a  man 
That  was  huntin'  with  my  father  up  on  the  Furginspan ; 
And  father  said  'twas  awful,  the  sport  got  scared  an'  he 
Forgot  ter  shoot  an'  dropped  his  gun,  took  up  the  nearest  tree; 
But  afterwards,  the  sportsman  said,  in  talkin'  of  the  moose, 
He  never  saw  the  bloomin'  thing — 'twas  father  dumb  the  spruce. 

On  Sunday  huntin's  not  allowed,  an'  farmin'  isn't  done, 

So  father  hugs  the  kitchen  stove  or  dozes  in  the  sun, 

But  sometimes  shoots  at  targets  up  back  at  Skeeter  Lake, 

And  all  the  week  my  mother  gives  us  tenderloin  steak. 

Jim  White  rigged  up  a  spring-gun  where  moose  come  thro'  his  fence 

And  cropped  his  pease  most  every  night — he  oughter  had  the  sense 

To  know  the  Baxters'  cows  was  out ;  then  some  one  went  an'  told ; 

So  now  he's  got  to  pay  the  bill  fer  Baxter's  two-year-old. 

A  Boston  man  stopped  in  ter  talk,  on  startin5  fer  the  woods, 

And  argued  with  my  father  'bout  hauling  in  some  "goods." 

When  he  come  out,  and  layin'  on  the  parlor  couch,  he  said 

He  ran  across  a  dandy  moose, — he  had  an  awful  head ! 

When  father  took  me  loggin'  up  on  Batholomew 

A  little  French  Cannuk  would  sing  his  ballads  fer  the  crew 

About  the  lumber  drive  that  squashed  an'  drownded  twenty  men, 

An'  the  Frenchie  what  got  married  ter  the  "nice  Canadienne." 

One  pretty  ballad  to  the  moose,  we  loved  ter  hear  him  tell — 

"Git  out  de  road,  we'll  blow  yer  horns  an'  ring  yer  bloody  bell." 


40 


A    TRIBUTE 


A  TRIBUTE 

NOT  always  does  success  mean  fame  and  riches, 
though  it  may  deserve  both.  How  many  there 
are  who  have  become  successful  in  their  pur- 
suits, but,  because  of  circumstances,  or  environment,  or 
misfortune,  never  know  what  it  is  to  bask  in  the  sunshine 
of  notoriety  and  wealth.  Nevertheless,  the  work  is  done, 
though  the  reward  is  withheld.  Like  a  bird  that  sings  its 
heart  out  in  the  distant  solitudes  where  no  ears  may  be 
gladdened  and  no  soul  cheered,  there  are  those  who 
have  their  volumes  of  wisdom  to  give  with  none  to  profit 
thereby. 

I  am  thinking  tonight  of  William  Carson,  of  Boiestown, 
New  Brunswick,  who  succeeded  in  the  work  set  out  for 
him  to  do.  He  was  an  authority  and  a  connoisseur,  but 
the  light  from  his  torch  of  knowledge  reached  scarcely  be- 
yond the  limits  of  the  little  settlement.  A  trapper  of  furs 
by  trade,  Bill  Carson  knew  the  ways  of  wild  things  as 
we  know  the  habits  of  our  own  domestic  animals.  The 
secrets  of  the  wilderness  were  like  open  pages  to  him,  and 
he  followed  the  pathless  woods  as  we  walk  the  streets  of 
our  native  town. 

For  sixty  odd  years  and  at  all  seasons,  he  made  a  cease- 
less study,  in  his  own  cunning  way,  of  the  little  animals 
whose  pelts  gave  him  his  livelihood.  Without  books  to 
guide  or  teachers  to  show,  he  mastered  the  art  of  trapping 
his  game.  Bear  tracks  in  the  leaves,  a  moose  call  from 
the  swamp,  and  feathers  on  the  snow  told  plain  and  simple 
stories  to  him.  Whether  in  the  musical  months  of  spring 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


Renous  River  hunting  shack  remodeled  from  an  old  logging  camp 


The  man  who  refused  to  have  his  picture  taken  with  his  sister,  now  sits 
with  proud  delight  for  the  guide  to  snap  him  with  his  moose 

42 


A    TRIBUTE 


or  in  the  blustering  winds  of  winter,  he  spoke  a  brief 
good-by  to  his  people  and  disappeared  alone  through  the 
firs  behind  his  house.  And  when  night  came,  wherever 
he  was,  there  he  would  rest  and  sleep  beneath  the  open 
sky  or  in  some  forsaken  camp,  happy  in  his  wisdom  of  the 
woods. 

Old  Bill  took  me  moose  hunting  on  the  upper  waters  of 
Rocky  Brook,  and  always  I  shall  remember  with  respect 
and  admiration  the  keen  little  woodsman,  sturdy  and  pow- 
erful, with  his  pack  and  his  axe  moving  quietly  ahead  of 
me  through  the  trees.  Over  his  ridges  and  across  his  wind- 
swept barrens  he  led  the  way,  forever  tireless  and  watch- 
ful, a  man  of  seventy-seven  years,  father  of  nine  children 
and  grandfather  of  thirty-six. 

"The  old  gentleman,"  as  they  often  called  him,  was  so 
patient  and  kindly.  The  way  about  him  was  at  all  times 
calm  and  thoughtful,  and  his  simple,  Christian  character 
he  never  wore  as  a  chevron  on  his  sleeve,  but  could  be 
found  and  felt  if  you  fell  to  talking  with  him,  best  of  all 
on  a  quiet  evening  in  some  distant  log  camp  in  the  great 
woods. 

In  late  October,  1918,  God  sent  him  a  clear  warning. 
It  was  influenza.  He  was  in  company  with  a  grandson, 
his  pupil,  hunting  the  streams  near  the  upper  Tobique 
waters.  In  three  days  he  reached  the  settlement,  making 
most  of  the  way  alone  and  passing  one  wretched  night  in 
an  old  camp,  while  the  boy  took  another  route  over  a  line 
of  trap.  On  November  yth,  the  Lord  gave  the  quick,  final 
call,  and  Old  Bill  slipped  out  and  traveled  the  road  West 
to  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds.  We  shall  never  see 
again  the  imprint  of  his  snowshoes  on  the  frozen  lakes, 
nor  find  the  dim  remains  of  his  camp  fire  on  the  river's 
brink,  nor  watch  his  bent  figure,  laden  with  the  precious 

43 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


"  Mother  and  Child."  The  mother  is  one  of  the  six  rocks  in  the  lake ; 
the  child  is  one  of  the  thousand  bushes  on  the  shore  whence  the  mother 
is  gazing 


"  When  the  film  is  developed,  if  you  are  sure  the  tiny  black  speck  in  the 
middle  distance  is  not  an  imperfection  in  the  paper,  it  may  be  the  large  bull 
moose  you  took  at  close  range."  Left  arrow  points  to  wake ;  X  and  arrow 
indicate  position  of  object  when  bulb  was  finally  squeezed 


44 


A    TRIBUTE 


catch  of  furs,  as  the  old  man  emerged  from  the  dark 
spruces.  The  steel  traps,  the  tools  of  his  success,  perhaps 
dozens  in  number,  lie  scattered  and  concealed  by  his  own 
hand  in  the  recesses  of  the  vast  country  where  no  man 
will  find  them.  The  boy,  however,  was  taken  with  him  on 
that  last  sad  journey  to  the  north,  we  are  told,  partly  for 
the  purpose  of  learning  the  whereabouts  of  the  traps  hid- 
den away  in  this  particular  region;  but  it  is  doubtful 
whether  he  will  ever  be  able  to  locate  them,  even  if  he 
follows  the  trade  and  lives  as  long.  These  crude  imple- 
ments of  his  craftsmanship,  together  with  the  farm  on 
Holtville  Ridge,  formed  the  bulk  of  his  little  estate. 

So,  one  life  of  the  million  that  are  lowly  though  suc- 
cessful came  to  its  honorable  close.  I  believe  if  Bill  Carson 
had  been  asked  what  he  would  wish  his  heaven  to  be,  he 
would  have  said,  "Give  me  a  dozen  steel  traps,  six  inches 
of  snow,  and  woods  like  Canada  has." 


If  you  don't  get  tired  waiting,  and  the  sun  and  wind  are  favorable,  and 
a  moose  happens  to  come  within  range,  you  may  get  a  poor  picture 

45 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE   HUNTER 


MY  MOUNTAIN 

(Set  to  music  by  JOHN  H.  DENSMORE) 
There  is  a  hill — a  fragrant,  verdant  hill 

Where  thrushes  sing, 
Where  pines  hum  through  their  same  faint  song 

Each  casual  spring ; 
The  first  to  greet  the  hopeful  day, 
The  last  to  see  it  drift  away, 

When  thrushes  sing. 

A  hundred  softly  breathing  summers  smile, 

And  smiling  go; 
A  hundred  white  Decembers  cry — and  fill 

The  months  with  snow. 
No  stain  of  years,  no  mark  of  clime — 
Still  changeless  in  the  changeful  time — 

The  uplands  show. 

The  wrongs  of  life  are  songs,  and  grief  is  peace 

And  work  days  are 
Sweet  summer  fruits,  when  once  is  seen, 

Outstretched  afar, 
This  forest  world,  so  dear,  so  vast; 
And  burning  in  the  west  at  last 

An  evening  star. 


MANY    ARE    CALLED,   BUT    FEW    WILL    COME 


MANY   ARE    CALLED,  BUT    FEW 
WILL   COME* 

THREE  bearded  and  bedraggled  woodsmen  were 
making  their  silent  way  through  the  forests  and 
scattered  barrens  on  the  Renous.  It  was  Octo- 
ber. One  October  is  much  like  another,  and  the  word 
alone  should  convey  one  great,  glorious  meaning  to  the 
man  who  has  truly  seen  and  felt  the  wild  beauties  of 
nature's  autumn.  To  me,  "October"  used  to  spell  foot- 
ball ;  but  in  recent  years  the  mere  utterance  of  the  word 
opens  out  a  sudden  mental  picture  of  crisp  mornings,  for- 
ests of  green  and  gold,  and  moose  hunting.  So  it  will  suf- 
fice to  state  the  year's  month,  allowing  the  appreciative 
reader  to  see  in  his  own  mind's  eye  those  delicious  acces- 
sories— the  peabody  birds,  the  clucking  partridges,  the 
jays,  colors  and  clouds,  moose  tracks,  and  the  whispering 
stillness  of  the  New  Brunswick  woods. 

To  the  casual  onlooker — if  there  had  been  one — these 
three  men  would  have  appeared  unhappy  and  sober;  be- 
cause they  were  dwellers  of  the  wilderness.  And  all  true 
woodsmen  are  silent  and  speechless,  but  really  joyful  souls; 
so  the  three  men,  on  the  contrary,  were  happy.  In  dress 
and  manner  they  looked  pretty  much  alike — only  I  didn't 
spit.  In  the  lead  strode  Moses  Davidson,  the  guide ;  Hale 
Reid,  cook,  brought  up  the  rear,  and  I  traveled  well  pro- 
tected between  them.  Mose  carried  a  heavy  pack,  an  axe, 
and  a  splendid  thirteen-point  deer  head  I  had  shot  the  pre- 
vious evening.  Hale  supported  a  moderate  load  of  cook- 

*  Under  another  title  this  paper  appeared  in  part  in  Outers-Recreation,  whose  editors  courteously 
allowed  it  to  be  included  in  this  publication. 

47 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

ing  articles  and  the  sad  remains  of  what  was  a  generous 
supply  of  food,  while  I  had  my  usual  burden,  consisting  of 
rifle,  camera,  binoculars,  and  sweaters. 

For  one  short,  eventful  week  we  had  been  housed  in  a 
trapper's  camp  on  the  upper  waters  of  the  South  Branch 
Renous  in  search  of  caribou.  In  this  hunt  we  were  dis- 
appointed, though  we  sighted  a  few  distant  bands  on  the 
broken  barrens.  We  readily  accounted  for  the  scarcity  of 
caribou  by  the  unexpected  abundance  of  moose,  while  we 
realized  the  best  shooting,  in  this  section,  would  commence 
after  deep  snows  in  late  November.  Fresh  moose  tracks, 
signs  and  bookings,  were  everywhere  evident.  We 
counted  from  four  to  nineteen  moose  every  day.  On  one 
occasion  in  the  night  we  were  aroused  from  heavy  sleep  by 
grunts  and  calls  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  camp 
yard.  The  moon  was  dropping  behind  the  spruces,  which 
made  it  quite  impossible  to  detect  whether  we  had  at  hand 
a  big  head  or  a  spike-horn  bull.  But  the  great  black  forms 
were  dimly  discernible  in  the  white  light  of  the  setting 
moon.  Unfortunately,  no  hunter  can  determine,  from  the 
tone  of  a  moose  grunt,  the  size  and  character  of  the  head 
he  carries. 

And  here  we  were  returning  from  this  splendid  moose 
country  to  a  point  we  were  less  familiar  with,  some  twenty 
miles  east.  Our  week's  supply  of  food  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted and  we  must  needs  strike  for  headquarters  to 
replenish  our  larder  with  flour,  salt,  bacon,  and  a  dozen 
other  necessities.  En  route  to  the  upper  waters  we  halted 
the  week  previous  at  an  old  lumber  camp,  one-quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  Renous,  where  we  deposited  a  good 
month's  supply  of  eatables,  and  for  this  camp  we  were  now 
headed. 

Inwardly  I  felt  much  disturbed  to  quit  such  a  promising 

48 


MANY    ARE    CALLED,   BUT    FEW    WILL    COME 

game  country  and  blamed  myself  as  well  as  my  men  for 
toting  thither  such  a  limited  supply  of  rations.  But  Mose 
declared  that  in  this  territory  one  corner  was  as  good  as 
another,  so  I  determined  to  hunt  wherever  we  chanced  to 
be,  and  return  later  if  possible. 

As  we  progressed  slowly  in  single  file  among  the  beau- 
tiful spruces  and  beside  the  solitary  dead-waters,  scanning 
every  likely  spot  for  a  glimpse  of  my  moose,  I  felt 
strangely  impressed  with  the  rare  good  fortune  of  my  lot. 
"This  is  the  real  thing,"  I  whispered  to  myself;  "real 
moose  hunting  in  New  Brunswick!"  Though  each  and 
every  autumn,  for  a  dozen  years  or  more,  I  had  found 
myself  traversing  the  big  game  country  of  the  north, 
always  thrilled,  always  in  high  spirits,  always  comfortably 
contented,  on  this  keen  morning  I  experienced  the  same  old 
joy  increased  a  hundred  fold.  The  great  wild  world  about 
us  seemed  too  full  of  primitive  beauty  for  human  expres- 
sion, and  I  hoped  we  might  just  travel  on  and  listen  to  the 
silent  woods. 

At  a  long  dead-water  we  paused  to  bait  and,  incidentally, 
to  watch  two  old  cow  moose  feeding  near  the  margin  of 
the  woods.  At  this  particular  season,  of  course,  cows 
prove  ever  so  helpful,  since  a  bull  is  apt  to  be  lingering 
under  cover  in  their  company.  For  more  than  an  hour  we 
watched  and  listened  and  devoured  the  last  morsel  of  our 
cold  meal.  As  if  the  scene  before  us  was  invisibly  trans- 
formed, we  all  suddenly  and  simultaneously  sighted  a 
bull  at  the  edge  of  the  big  trees,  standing  motionless  and 
gazing  calmly  in  the  direction  of  the  cows.  The  animal 
appeared  quite  as  if  he  had  been  anchored  there  for  the 
whole  time  we  had  been  watching  for  him.  This  weird 
and  sudden  appearance  of  a  moose  into  one's  field  of 
vision  is  often  remarked  upon  by  hunters.  The  beast,  as 

49 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

it  were,  steps  from  nowhere  into  full  view.  You  fail  to 
see  him  come ;  he  is  merely  there.  I  cautiously  leveled  the 
glasses  and  decided  without  hesitation  he  would  prove  a 
splendid  specimen.  The  men,  eager  for  a  look,  agreed  we 
should  not  let  him  pass.  Hale,  given  to  impulsive  excite- 
ment, swore  it  was  a  mammoth  head — the  largest  he  had 
ever  seen. 

The  bull  was  standing  nearly  broadside  to,  when  first 
discovered.  His  antlered  head  actually  looked  enormous, 
even  at  the  distance  of  some  400  yards.  It  was  difficult  to 
count  the  points  at  this  range,  since  they  became  confused 
with  the  twigs  and  little  branches  in  the  trees  of  the  back- 
ground. For  fully  twenty  minutes  I  did  not  see  that  our 
moose  stirred  a  muscle.  But  when  the  cows,  serving  as 
decoys,  moved  gradually  along  the  shallow  water,  he 
woke  up,  as  it  were,  and  followed  with  precision  and  great 
dignity.  And  then  it  was  that  the  significant  coughs  and 
grunts  began.  When  he  finally  swung  about  and  proceeded 
head-on  for  a  moment,  I  saw  there  was  something  irregu- 
lar or  freakish  about  the  horns,  for  now  we  counted 
fourteen  points  on  one  antler  and  few,  if  any,  on  the 
other.  Hale  declared,  with  a  sympathetic  accompaniment 
of  oaths,  that  both  horns  tilted  well  back  over  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  beast,  and  that  the  prongs  of  the  off-antler  must 
be  hidden  from  view.  But  I  had  viewed  the  head  squarely 
from  the  front  for  an  instant  and  knew  Hale's  solution 
was  not  the  case.  After  another  hour  of  patient  watching, 
the  cows  brought  our  moose  directly  toward  us  to  a  point 
not  300  feet  distant,  when  we  viewed  distinctly  for  a  long 
period  the  head  in  all  its  peculiar  deficiency.  There  he 
stood  before  us,  truly  a  splendid  specimen,  having  a  heavy 
muffle,  a  long  bell,  and  carrying  but  one  large  and  well 
palmated  antler  of  thirteen  points ;  the  other  horn  proved 

50 


MANY    ARE    CALLED,   BUT    FEW    WILL    COME 

to  be  one  long,  irregular  spike,  resembling  a  poor  caribou 
head.  If  the  incomplete  antler  had  corresponded  to  the 
healthy  one  in  size  and  shape,  it  would  have  been  a  grand 

trophy,  measuring,  according  to  Hale,  "not  a  d inch 

under  65."  In  the  woods,  disappointments  are  great  and 
the  ifs  are  many. 

By  2  P.M.  we  were  again  on  the  trail,  expecting  to  make 
camp  by  four  in  the  evening.  A  slight  detour  from  our 
direct  route  brought  us  to  a  picturesque  grassy  body  of 
water,  surrounded  on  one  side  by  a  wicked  cedar  swamp 
and  on  the  other  by  gently  sloping  ridges  in  ravishing 
color.  When  I  had  visited  this  spot  in  previous  years,  I 
was  profoundly  impressed  with  its  rare  beauty  and  un- 
speakable loneliness.  Every  inch  of  the  place  seemed  to 
breathe  forsaken  wildness.  How  many,  many  times,  amid 
the  clatter  of  city  scenes  and  the  rushing  excitement  of 
business,  I  have  pictured  this  calm  retreat,  tucked  away  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  New  Brunswick  wilderness.  Besides 
our  sympathetic  selves,  scarcely  a  human  soul  from  one 
year's  end  to  another  interrupts  its  eternal  quiet.  What 
is  there  of  all  aesthetic  conditions  that  appeals  more  ten- 
derly to  the  adventurous  temperament  than  pure,  unbroken 
wilderness? 

The  miry  shores,  trodden  by  moose  and  deer  for  in- 
numerable summers,  looked  like  a  farmer's  cow  yard;  a 
thousand  deep  runways  converged  to  the  pond  from  the 
country  round  about.  A  cow  and  her  calf,  partly  concealed 
in  the  long  grasses,  were  feeding  at  the  lower  end.  As 
we  paused  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  bull  in  the  vicinity,  we 
heard  at  our  left  a  clear  series  of  roars.  Instantly  we 
crouched  where  we  stood,  searching  among  the  trees  with 
wide,  eager  eyes.  The  sounds  became  more  distinct  and 
nearer,  accompanied  by  the  cracking  of  branches,  until  we 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

made  out  the  dark  outline  of  a  moose  headed  in  our  direc- 
tion. It  proved  to  be  a  three-year  with  a  small  but  evenly 
developed  pair  of  horns.  He  evidently  was  following  the 
trail  of  a  cow,  which  wound  through  the  woods  close  to 
our  position.  He  passed  within  fifty  feet  from  us,  with 
his  nose  to  the  ground  and  emitting  hoarse  grunts.  As  he 
circled  around  to  a  point  well  back  of  us,  he  stopped, 
sniffed  the  wind,  and  advanced  in  our  direction,  issuing 
sounds  of  a  different  tone.  For  a  moment  I  was  a  little 
alarmed,  though  my  rifle  was  ready.  Under  these  condi- 
tions a  bull  moose  is  not  always  docile,  and  when  a  young 
bull  has  had  no  experience  in  "meeting  men,"  as  we  be- 
lieved of  this  one,  the  result  is  problematical.  The  animal 
came  to  a  halt  at  thirty  feet,  looked  us  over,  then  wheeled 
with  a  great  noise  and  tremendous  display  of  power,  and 
made  for  the  outlet.  I  was  relieved,  but  hastened  to  get  a 
picture  as  he  entered  the  water.  Mose  imitated  a  cow 
whimpering,  which  made  him  stop  in  water  to  his  belly, 
when  I  made  a  distant  exposure. 

Meanwhile  the  cow  and  calf  at  such  a  distance  had  not 
been  in  the  least  disturbed.  Immediately  Mose  sighted  a 
"big  bull"  close  behind  the  calf,  hidden  by  a  small  tama- 
rack. I  was  quite  unprepared  for  such  a  rapid  succession 
of  exciting  events,  for  they  seemed  to  come  thick  and  fast 
on  this  eventful  day.  It  would  be  useless  to  undertake  a 
stalk  which  meant  to  penetrate  the  swamp.  I  therefore 
told  Mose  to  give  a  call.  It  interested  me  to  see  whether 
he  could  entice  the  bull  away  from  the  company  of  the 
cow.  Immediately  the  moose  lifted  his  antlered  head  and 
slowly  swung  it  in  our  direction.  Until  Mose  called  a 
second  time  the  bull  stood  motionless,  then  at  this  second 
invitation  he  gave  one  farewell  look  toward  his  companion, 
and  started  for  the  cedar  swale. 

52 


MANY    ARE    CALLED,   BUT    FEW    WILL   COME 

Many  times  Mose  had  called  in  my  presence,  securing 
one  or  more  replies,  and  on  several  occasions  the  bulls 
came  cautiously  and  slowly,  but  never  coming  out  in  full 
view,  as  the  stories  relate.  But  here  was  the  most  evident, 
full-fledged  successful  example  of  moose  calling  I  ever 
heard  of.  Every  step  in  the  event  was  accomplished  quite 
as  if  it  had  been  concocted  for  the  moving-picture  screen. 
The  beast  heard,  understood,  and  obeyed.  For  fully 
twenty-five  minutes  he  was  entirely  out  of  sight,  circling 
the  pond.  From  the  cruel  depths  of  the  swamp  we  heard 
his  continuous  roars  and  coughs,  the  breaking  of  branches 
and  splashings  of  water.  In  the  stillness  of  that  rapturous 
hour  of  sundown  these  sounds  were  significant,  to  say  the 
least. 

Crouched  behind  big  stumps,  we  strained  our  eyes  for 
the  first  sight  of  the  great  black  body  as  it  must  soon 
crash  into  view.  When  it  appeared  I  whispered  to  Mose 
something  about  the  folly  of  shooting  only  a  fair  moose 
because  it  was  at  close  range.  "Suit  yerself,"  he  answered. 
"Yer  may  hunt  two  months  in  the  country  and  not  see  a 
better  one,  and  yer  may  run  acrost  an  old  son-of-a-gun 
termorrer."  This  was  sad  advice  at  such  a  moment. 

"What  will  we  do  if  I  don't  shoot?"  I  asked. 

"Just  yell!" 

So  I  made  up  my  mind  I  should  do  what  I  thought  best, 
knowing  I  could  get  no  help  from  Mose.  It  was  interest- 
ing to  observe  that  the  roars  sounded  little,  if  any,  louder 
as  the  moose  approached.  That  is,  when  in  the  cedar 
swamp  the  guttural  noises  seemed  nearly  as  penetrating  as 
when  the  animal  was  100  feet  from  us.  This  point  we 
had  discussed  on  similar  occasions  when  listening  to  moose 
advancing  to  the  call,  and  now  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
near  by  there  is  less  space  and  opportunity  for  reverbera- 

53 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

tion,  whereas  at  a  great  distance  the  sounds  echo  usually 
across  water  or  against  trees  and  ridges.  It  is  probable  a 
bull  roars  louder  when  he  first  hears  the  call  from  a  far 
point,  just  as  you  would  make  more  or  enough  noise  to  be 
heard  at  a  greater  distance.  Then,  too,  the  actual  position 
of  the  head  at  the  moment  has  something  to  do  with  the 
carrying  tone. 

As  our  moose  plunged  suddenly  into  full  view,  unob- 
structed by  even  a  twig,  we  could  hardly  have  had  a  better 
opportunity  to  form  various  conclusions.  Like  the  actual 
kill,  the  mere  story  of  it  should  not  be  a  matter  on  which 
to  dwell.  By  exact  measurement  I  shot  at  forty-eight  feet, 
and  again  in  a  few  seconds  to  do  the  humane  thing. 

In  the  size  and  measurement  of  the  moose  I  was  not 
greatly  disappointed.  We  estimated  he  would  tip  the 
scales  to  better  than  900  pounds,  while  the  spread  of 
horns  was  forty-seven  inches ;  points  numbered  seventeen, 
and  the  bell  was  sixteen  inches  in  length.  In  severing  the 
head  the  next  morning,  we  discovered  two  leaden  bullets 
embedded  in  the  muscles  of  the  neck,  which  were  explained 
by  the  men  to  be  the  doings  of  Bill  Carson,  the  old 
trapper,  who  passed  the  previous  winter  alone  in  this 
region.  Since  we  left  the  autumn  before,  no  person  was 
known  to  have  visited  the  country,  save  the  old  trapper, 
and  the  bullets,  according  to  Hale  and  Mose,  tallied  with 
the  size  of  the  rifle  he  carried.  The  moose  was  a  superb 
specimen,  in  spite  of  the  moderate  antler  spread,  and, 
strange  to  say,  I  was  not  disturbed  at  this.  The  circum- 
stances under  which  the  animal  was  shot  atoned  for  any 
deficiency  in  measurement.  To  me,  it  was  the  cleverest 
job  of  moose  calling  I  could  conceive  of.  In  a  nutshell, 
Mose,  at  the  height  of  the  rutting  season,  drew  a  bull 
away  from  his  cow  to  a  point  forty-eight  feet  from  the 

54 


MANY    ARE    CALLED,   BUT    FEW    WILL    COME 

"sport."   In  circling  the  pond  the  moose  traveled  over  one 
mile  after  responding  to  the  call. 


Dr.  H.  O.  Hunt  with  the  50-inch  moose  he 
shot  at  Burton  Lake,  New  Brunswick 


55 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


TOUT  SEUL 

THE  day  broke  fair  and  fresh  and  fragrant — the 
complete  essence  of  Indian  Summer.  From  the 
camp  door  the  picture  of  the  quiet  lake  with 
autumn-tinted  ridges  beyond  appeared  like  an  over- 
drawn reproduction  of  a  water  color.  Weather  like  this, 
you  are  dead  sure  "God's  in  his  heaven  and  all's  right  with 
the  world."  I  rested  calmly  in  the  belief  that  back  in  the 
States  the  wife  and  kiddies  were  well  and  happy. 

It  was  going  to  be  a  red-letter  day,  I  felt  sure ;  therefore 
I  intended  to  spend  it  alone.  There  were  a  lot  of  things  I 
wanted  to  get  to  thinking  about.  The  business  of  trailing 
along  through  the  woods  behind  a  guide  day  after  day  in 
the  usual  formation  becomes  monotonous  and  tiresome. 
You  follow  his  lead ;  you  may  neither  go  where  you  please 
nor  linger  where  you  will;  you  instinctively  imitate  his 
movements,  his  caution,  his  speed.  You  almost  think  his 
thoughts.  While  this  is  certainly  the  traditional  and  proper 
method  of  hunting  big  game  in  unfamiliar  ground,  the 
day  sometimes  comes  when  you  long  to  act  as  your  own 
guide,  and  manoeuvre  to  your  heart's  content,  letting  the 
game  go  hang.  So,  today  I  would  proceed  unhampered 
and  undisturbed,  eat  my  lunch  if  and  when  and  where  I 
pleased,  and  return  to  camp  when  I  got  good  and  ready. 

The  wet  woods  sparkled  and  sang.  Each  tree  wore  the 
shade  of  its  own  choice — Titian,  gold,  chrome,  and  green, 
and  I  was  to  have  a  good,  long  look,  with  no  one  to  spoil  it. 
In  that  interesting  volume,  "Camp  Fires  in  the  Canadian 
Rockies,"  Mr.  Hornaday  writes  a  delicious  paragraph  on 

56 


TOUT    SEUL 


the  wisdom  of  going  forth  to  see  nature  alone,  as  you 
would  prefer  to  call  on  your  best  girl.  And  I  often  think 
of  his  simile  when  I  am  with  one  or  the  other. 

After  crossing  Home  Lake  in  the  canoe,  with  rifle, 
camera,  glasses,  books,  and  lunch,  I  cut  through  to  Duck 
Lake,  an  intensely  desolate  spot.  Whoever  christened 
these  bodies  of  water  should  be  harshly  spoken  to.  Such 
romantic  and  significant  names  as  "Spider,"  "Deer," 
"Moose,"  "Long,"  and  "Fish,"  are  given  these  delectable 
retreats.  It  so  happens  there  are  fully  as  many  deer  at 
Moose  Lake-  as  there  are  moose  at  Deer  Lake,  and  no 
more  spiders  around  Spider  Lake  than  any  of  the  others. 
To  be  sure,  Long  Lake  is  quite  long,  and  there  are  trout 
in  Fish  Lake,  as  everywhere  else.  But  oh,  how  unpoetical 
and  mediocre  !  Since  there  are  said  to  be  twenty-five  within 
a  five-mile  radius  of  camp,  perhaps  the  pretty  names  ran 
out  before  they  got  to  this  particular  group.  A  little  to  the 
northeast  another  couple  of  dozen  small  sheets  of  water 
are  called  after  individuals  who  happened  along  when  the 
cognomens  were  distributed.  We  are  told  Burton  Lake  is 
named  in  memory  of  a  certain  Mr.  Burton,  who  once 
killed  a  moose  on  its  shores.  And  a  lumberman  called 
Burke  perpetuated  his  name  because  of  the  logging  opera- 
tions he  undertook  in  the  vicinity  of  what  is  now  known  as 
Burke  Lake. 

In  this  general  region — pretty  much  Anglo-American — 
we  may  not  expect,  of  course,  those  fascinating  French 
names  common  to  the  foreign  settlements  still  further 
north.  But  what  was  to  prevent  making  use  of  the  musical 
Indian  words,  inasmuch  as  these  woods  rang  with  the 
shouts  of  Red  Men  for  many  years  before  Americans 
came? 

At  any  rate,  I  emerged  from  the  spruces  on  Duck  Lake, 

57 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

where  some  early  prospector  must  have  seen  a  flock  of 
sheldrakes  and  curled  up  in  the  sunshine  to  look,  listen, 
and  think.  To  any  stray  reader,  it  would  be  stupid  and  a 
waste  of  good  time  to  wade  through  the  endless  record  of 
what  I  saw,  heard,  and  dreamed.  But  all  the  same,  are 
not  these  the  very  things  you  and  I  and  the  next  man  feed 
on  and  live  by?  Always  we  are  amused,  if  not  uplifted,  by 
sights,  sounds,  and  thoughts.  Our  own  little  personal  expe- 
riences, our  amateur  conclusions,  are  precious  to  ourselves. 
How  often  in  conversation  among  people  of  average  in- 
telligence do  we  hear  the  recital  of  personal  narratives, 
and  we  all  are  participants  in  this  competition  of  common 
talk.  What  happens  to  you  is  of  such  peculiar  interest  to 
you  yourself  that  you  straightway  must  tell  it.  But  it  will 
be  surprising  if  your  audience  is  as  keen  on  the  tale  as  you 
are.  Perhaps  you  are  not  a  good  story-teller,  or  perhaps 
your  audience  is  not  a  good  listener,  which  is  more  probable. 
Even  a  child  has  "long,  long  thoughts,"  and  Tom  Hood, 
in  his  mature  years,  said  he  was  further  off  from  heaven 
than  when  he  was  a  boy. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  three  cows  and  a  grown  calf  wan- 
dered leisurely  out  of  the  woods  and  fed  along  the  shore, 
getting  well  out  into  deep  water.  They  stood  at  fairly 
close  range,  perhaps  100  yards,  and  by  the  use  of  the 
binoculars  I  could  see  every  detail.  Something  of  interest 
was  certainly  in  the  timber  near  the  barren  whence  they 
came,  for  constantly  they  turned  their  heads  to  look  and 
listen.  Presently  the  sight  that  delights  every  hunter  of 
big  game  came  silently  into  view.  A  bull  moose  is  ever  so 
cautious  at  this  time  of  year,  and  often  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  being  little  less  than  timid.  This  individual 
studied  carefully  the  prospects  of  safety  before  he  moved 
into  the  open,  and  I  am  sure  must  have  looked  long  and 

58 


TOUT    SEUL 


doubtfully  from  the  precious  cover  of  his  dark  trees^ 
Rarely  do  the  males  show  fight  at  this  or  any  season,  ex- 
cept when  wounded  or  cornered.  We  all  hear  tales  of 
hunters  being  "treed"  by  moose.  I  must  take  such  state- 
ments with  much  salt.  Never  has  an  authentic  report— 
with  one  exception — come  to  me  of  a  case  wherein  a  man 
was  actually  forced  to  flee  to  cover.  Though  the  experi- 
ence has  not  yet  befallen  me,  I  know  of  hunters  who  fled, 
to  be  sure,  but  in  each  case  it  developed  the  retreat  was 
quite  unnecessary.  It  is  always  best  to  consider  safety 
first,  but  if  these  frightened  men  had  stood  their  ground, 
the  embarrassment — which  looked  like  real  danger  at  the 
moment — would,  doubtless,  have  passed.  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
description  (Scribner's,  December,  1916)  of  the  infuriated 
bull  which  persisted  in  following  him  until  it  was  necessary 
to  kill  the  beast  is  the  one  trustworthy  instance  I  can  recall. 
On  one  occasion,  our  team  was  making  the  home  trip 
with  our  load  of  heads,  meat,  and  personal  effects,  when  a 
large  bull,  bolting  through  the  woods  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  grunts  and  roars,  halted  within  thirty  feet  of  the 
horses.  Fire  showed  in  his  eyes  and  his  mane  stood  on 
end.  With  much  difficulty  the  men  were  able  to  pacify  the 
frightened  team,  which  reared  and  snorted,  endangering 
the  whole  outfit.  Shouts  and  curses  had  no  effect  on  the 
angry  moose,  and,  since  no  one  was  armed,  all  hands  were 
prepared  for  a  set-to.  As  he  plunged  further  around  the 
wind,  still  wrathful  and  eager  for  battle,  he  scented  the 
enemy  and  gradually  subsided,  moving  quietly  out  of  sight. 
The  reverberation  of  the  wagon  wheels  hitting  against  (the 
big  rocks,  we  concluded,  sounded  to  the  brute  at  some 
distance  like  the  striking  of  horns  in  a  battle  between  two 
bulls,  and  forthwith  he  hastened  to  the  scene.  The  ex- 
cited horses  he  apparently  mistook  at  the  moment  for  the 

59 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

moose  engaged  in  the  conflict.  Immediately  on  getting 
the  human  scent  his  whole  demeanor  changed,  giving  evi- 
dence that  he  did  not  intend  to  rush  upon  the  men  or 
horses  to  attack  them.  I  once  listened  to  the  far-away 
noises  of  a  bull  fight  which  at  times  seemed  as  much  like 
wagon  wheels  as  moose  antlers. 

But  all  this  may  have  little  to  do  with  the  placid  moose 
I  was  watching  from  my  blind  on  Duck  Lake,  though  it 
indicates  how  a  chain  of  memories  rises  up  when  one  rests 
alone  in  a  wild  and  calm  retreat.  My  moose  clearly  showed 
no  desire  to  associate  closely  with  the  cows,  nor  to  feed 
even  by  himself,  but  stood  motionless  for  many  long 
minutes,  as  if  keeping  guard  over  his  flock.  As  the  cows 
progressed  towards  me  along  the  grassy  shore,  he  gathered 
himself  together  and  followed  heavily,  emitting  the  gut- 
tural coughs  so  characteristic  of  bulls  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
These  sounds  certainly  have  much  meaning,  probably  sug- 
gesting impatience,  warning,  censure,  or  desire.  Then  he 
would  forget  his  state  of  mind  and  graze  listlessly  for  a 
brief  space.  When  he  found  himself  close  to  a  small 
tamarack  he  suddenly  took  vengeance  on  it,  ripping  the 
branches  pitilessly  with  his  horns  until  there  was  little  left 
but  a  scarred  and  broken  stub.  The  coughs  were  now 
roars,  given  out  in  low  undertones.  This  way  and  that  he 
tossed  his  antlered  head — respectable  antlers  they  were, 
but  too  inferior  on  which  to  pin  my  license  tag — pawing 
and  hooking  until  he  put  himself  in  a  state  of  nervous  rage. 
While,  at  so  close  a  range  I  might  rely  on  my  marksman- 
ship— always  rather  average  than  accurate — I  was  dis- 
tinctly uncomfortable.  To  make  a  tranquil  study  of  a 
docile  bull  moose  at  a  distance  is  one  thing — but  to  con- 
tinue the  study  of  his  delirious  approach  is  another.  I 
really  wasn't  scared,  but  developments  were  so  uncertain. 

60 


TOUT    SEUL 


Of  course  he  had  no  knowledge  of  my  presence,  conse- 
quently I  was  sure  his  anger  had  nothing  to  do  with  me; 
but  I  didn't  care  to  have  him  get  so  mad  when  I  was  so 
near.  There  was  no  chance  of  his  getting  my  wind,  which 
made  it  all  the  more  disagreeable,  for  he  would  yet  be 
sitting  on  my  lap  unless  something  happened  to  prevent. 
Naturally  I  disliked  to  have  a  scene,  though  I  was  inter- 
ested in  staging  an  incident  worth  writing  about.  Why  I 
chanced  to  be  seated  immediately  in  his  path,  or  why  he 
chose  to  travel  directly  towards  me,  I  don't  understand. 
Without  any  well-outlined  plan  of  action,  I  instinctively 
felt  that  I  myself  should  take  the  situation  in  hand,  and 
allow  the  animal  no  more  freedom  of  movement.  To  beat 
him  at  his  own  game  was  evidently  what  I  would  try  to  do. 
When  he  paused  slightly  to  root  up  a  little  spruce,  not 
further  off  than  the  length  of  a  board  of  directors'  table, 
I  arose  with  great  commotion,  and,  waving  my  arms  wildly, 
shouted  mean  names  at  him. 

Apparently  it  was  my  turn  to  be  angry,  and  I  felt  myself 
sweaty  with  rage  as  I  started  to  fling  my  slang  and  slander, 
but  at  the  sudden  sound  of  my  own  voice  echoing  across 
the  barren,  and  realizing  the  intimacy  of  the  situation,  I 
experienced  genuine  fear  for  the  first  time.  To  stop  talk- 
ing to  him,  however,  at  such  close  quarters  would  admit 
defeat,  so  I  continued  my  eloquence,  gesticulating  as  one 
usually  does  in  a  heated  tirade.  The  force  of  the  on- 
slaught I  knew  would  tell.  The  poor  creature  got  a  terrific 
jolt.  His  vicious  conduct  changed  first  to  blank  wonder- 
ment and  then  to  timid  alarm  for  the  safety  of  his  hide. 
Without  lingering  to  catch  the  full  meaning  of  my  last 
words,  he  wheeled  where  he  stood  and  "racked"  with  vio- 
lent speed  into  the  tall  timber.  I  know  I  recovered  from 
my  fright  quicker  than  he  did  from  his. 

61 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

The  incident  amused  me  more  than  anything  else,  until 
I  noticed  my  camera  lying  beside  me,  which  I  completely 
forgot  to  use.  At  this  I  was  heartily  disturbed.  Like  most 
average  amateur  sportsmen,  I  am  forever  hoping  to  "get 
good  pictures,"  and  forever  failing  to  get  even  poor  ones. 
The  cows,  somewhat  aroused,  though  in  no  haste  to  leave 
as  their  lord  and  master  left,  were  standing  in  astonishment 
at  the  strange  scene  they  had  witnessed.  They  were  now 
strung  along  perhaps  sixty  yards  away.  Still  disgruntled 
at  my  stupidity,  I  seized  and  adjusted  the  camera,  rushed 
at  them  across  the  open  barren,  and  succeeded  in  making 
two  indistinct  exposures  before  they  broke  for  cover.  The 
better  of  the  two  appears,  with  apologies,  on  page  65. 

When  I  had  finished  the  business  of  successfully  clearing 
the  feeding  ground  of  all  game  by  my  uncanny  yells  and 
mad  dash  up  the  shore,  I  sat  down  to  eat.  The  morning 
had  been  unusual,  to  be  sure,  but  if  I  waited  in  the  blind 
a  fortnight  those  five  moose  and  probably  most  of  their 
friends  would  not  venture  again  into  that  cheering  section. 
At  all  events,  as  I  lay  in  the  sunshine  again  I  concluded  I 
had  made  at  least  one  "faunatical"  observation,  viz.,  that 
an  impassioned  bull  moose  is  not  truly  dangerous  if  you 
speak  sharply  to  him  as  he  approaches. 

But  what  retiring  and  harmless  creatures  moose  really 
are!  Their  first  instinct  is  to  dwell  apart.  Unlike  the 
habits  usually  attributed  to  wolves  and  lions,  they  live  out 
their  peaceful  days  in  distant  seclusion,  forever  trying  to 
avoid  the  trodden  ways  of  man.  All  animals  have  among 
themselves  their  periods  of  antagonism  as  well  as  amiable 
content.  We  cannot  blame  them  for  their  varied  moods, 
nor  must  we  feel  we  may  slay  them  because  they  are  some- 
times fierce.  The  brief  lives  of  all  creatures,  like  our  own, 
are  crowded  with  problems,  struggles,  and  tragedies.  The 

62 


TOUT    SEUL 


degrees  of  happiness,  of  comfort,  of  health  which  they, 
with  their  own  limited  powers,  are  able  to  appreciate,  must 
needs  be  beyond  our  comprehension. 

In  considering  the  inoffensive  habits  of  moose,  and  their 
individual  privilege  of  existence,  the  claim  given  to  all 
living  things,  I  wondered  particularly  on  this  beautiful  day, 
whether  a  man  who  shoots  can  be  looked  upon  altogether 
as  kind-hearted.  So  often  we  sportsmen  are  admonished 
for  deliberately  setting  forth  with  intent  to  kill.  Women 
in  particular  condemn  us.  If  we  are  purposely  cruel  and 
hunt  for  the  mere  sport  of  watching  death  dim  the  eyes  of 
innocent  things,  we  deserve  all  and  more  than  is  said  of  us. 
Every  sportsman  I  have  known  abhors  the  spectacle  of 
that  final  moment  of  suffering.  Yet  the  spirit  of  the  chase, 
the  inherent  desire  to  bag  a  good  prize,  the  consciousness 
of  the  legality  of  the  sport,  and  the  knowledge,  skill,  time, 
and  expense  entailed,  all  tend  to  minimize  the  heartlessness 
of  taking  innocent  lives.  Biologists  may  tell  us  that  when 
pain  is  thus  inflicted  it  comes  in  a  less  degree  of  intensity 
than  we,  as  mortals,  are  able  to  regard  it,  since  the  animal 
is  known  to  be  neither  as  sensitive  nor  as  highly  organized; 
it  is  physically  and  temperamentally  constituted  to  endure 
distress  more  casually,  as  it  were,  than  we  are  accustomed 
to  appreciate.  While  such  a  theory  may  have  truth  in 
it,  I  am  sure  most  of  us  choose  to  disregard  it  as  an 
argumentative  excuse  for  causing  suffering  and  take  the 
position  that  any  intentional  injury  is  pitiless  and  cruel. 
But  the  sportsmanlike  purpose  is  not  to  make  to  suffer — 
it  is  to  kill.  So  the  deprivation  of  life  is  the  point  to 
consider. 

The  right  and  wrong  of  the  business  is  a  matter  of  opin- 
ion, of  creed.  The  Scriptures  do  not  forbid  it;  the  state 
allows  and  encourages  it.  Which  is  of  greater  value,  the 

63 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A    MOOSE    HUNTER 

balance  of  the  creature's  life,  or  his  mounted  head?  Which 
will  be  made  happier,  the  moose  with  his  freedom,  or  the 
hunter  with  his  trophy?  "It  depends." 

Killing  for  scientific  purposes  and  for  food  to  sustain 
human  life  is  universally  acknowledged  to  be  just  and 
necessary,  since  both  are  of  greater  importance  than  animal 
life.  In  spite  of  the  lawful  right  to  kill,  the  pleasure  of 
owning  a  collection  of  trophies,  and  the  credit  for  out- 
witting wild  and  clever  beasts,  is  not  the  pastime  rather 
unnecessary  to  one's  health  and  happiness? 

Never  do  I  look  down  upon  the  lifeless  body  of  a  moose 
without  the  thought  that  the  kill  was  really  needless,  that 
a  life  was  forfeited  merely  for  what  I  call  my  pleasure. 
Candidly,  my  conception  of  pleasure  is  morally  wrong. 
However,  I  am  glad,  perhaps,  to  have  taken  a  few  speci- 
mens for  the  experience,  and  for  their  biological  and 
scientific  value;  but  now,  like  many  men  who  have  con- 
tinually indulged  in  the  sport  for  sport's  sake,  I  am  con- 
vinced there  is  as  much  opportunity  for  keen  enjoyment 
and  helpful  instruction  in  the  observation  and  photography 
of  living  animals.  To  secure  still  or  moving  pictures  is 
more  difficult  and  every  bit  as  thrilling  as  shooting,  while 
the  photographic  likenesses  of  the  creatures  in  their  nat- 
ural haunts  are  more  useful  and  significant  than  stuffed 
samples.  By  the  use  of  the  camera  you  get  your  moose, 
yet  he  still  runs  free  in  his  native  woods,  and  there  can  be 
no  question  of  your  guilt.  You  travel  the  same  wonderful 
stretches  of  country,  you  live  the  same  open  life,  you  bring 
home  the  same  notebook  of  observations,  with  no  limit  to 
the  number  of  mementos  of  your  success.  Before  many 
years  I  believe  it  will  be  quite  out  of  fashion  to  kill  big 
game  hereabouts  for  mere  sport.  From  the  code  of  so- 
called  advanced  civilization,  many  traditional  indulgences 

64 


TOUT    SEUL 


have  been  already  discredited.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
the  motion  picture  machine  and  the  camera  for  taking 
colors  will  replace  the  sporting  rifle.  The  hunter  will  be- 
come the  photographer,  and  the  sportsman  will  be  the 
naturalist. 

To  publish  compositions  setting  forth  the  glories  of 
moose  hunting  and  then  condemn  the  undertaking  as  a 
sport,  sounds  little  less  than  contradictory — but  go  forth 
annually,  my  friend,  and  shoot  down  with  your  gun,  all 
told,  a  dozen  noble  specimens,  and  then  of  a  quiet  Indian 
Summer  day  strike  off  alone  through  the  woods  to  look, 
listen,  and  think. 


I  rushed  towards  them  across  the  open  barren,  making  two   poor 
exposures  before  they  broke  for  cover 


REFLECTIONS    OF    A    MOOSE    HUNTER 


A  large  bull  photographed  by  Mr.  J.  A.  Burgess  and  Mr.  C. 
M.  Sawyer,  who  made  these  instantaneous  exposures  with  a 
31  x  2 1  pocket  kodak 


66 


THE    ONE    DEFENCE 


THE  ONE  DEFENCE 

WE  hunters  turn  from  tender  eyes 
Of  wounded  deer,  and  criticize 
Barbaric  customs,  yet  we  still 
Pursue  our  purposes  to  kill. 

The  fascination  of  the  chase 
Is  known  to  every  age  and  race ; 
The  world  we  cannot  rectify; 
The  harmless  with  the  vile  must  die. 

At  cruelties  to  beast  and  bird 
Compassions  rise  and  hearts  are  stirred; 
To  slay  in  fairness  and  prevent 
Undue  distress  is  our  intent. 


REFLECTIONS   OF  A    MOOSE   HUNTER 


Bull  photographed  at  thirty  feet,  May  30,  1921.  The  antlers  are  well 
grown  for  so  early  in  the  summer,  and  by  autumn  the  moose  should  carry  a 
splendid  head 


Cow  moose  taken  at  Salmon  Brook  Lake,  New  Brunswick,  June  1,  1921 

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